


Rom Coms (Romantic Comrades)

by allonsytotumblr



Category: Black Snow - Keith Dewhurst, Theatrical Novel - Mikhail Bulgakov
Genre: BAMF Toropetzkaya, F/M, Feminist Themes, One-Sided Attraction, Russian Literature, Sexual Frustration, Sexual Tension, Soviet Union, i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-03 15:14:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14571747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsytotumblr/pseuds/allonsytotumblr
Summary: Wanting to get laid and getting your play performed: both hard tasks in the Soviet Union.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Aye, so I went to see this play (that makes me sound so cultured, ",,,,,I went to see a pLAY," anyway, and I wrote this because??? You know that one weird fever dream fic that you're ashamed of? this is mine.

Polixena Toropetzkaya wants to fuck Sergei Leontievich.

It’s not a complicated desire. She sits at her typewriter, with his words in one ear and a telephone conversation in the other, and imagines the two of them on top of her desk. They could do it here; while the Independent Theater is not a nice building, it has thick walls.

The weather is hot. It’s summer. Thick walls, while good for muffling the noise of one fucking an associate, are not good for letting breezes in. If Polixena Toropetzkaya was a poetic women, she could have drawn a comparison between the weather outside and her own feelings for Leontievich: burning, ever present, but never actually breaking into a climactic thunderstorm.

Since Totopetzkaya is as far removed from poetic as possible, and since the narrator isn’t writing some Tolstoy length nonsense just to tell the reader how one character is feeling, suffice it to say that the typist suffers from multiple sources of heat, neither easily remedied. There are no windows in her office.

As for the latter problem, Toropetzkaya has tried every method of seduction that she knows on this man: she tries to type his play all the faster and more accurately, she shouts at the people who telephone her extra loudly and efficiently, she calls him comrade, more times than strictly necessary, since it’s the most erotic thing that you can address another person as, and when they talk to each other, she uses _ty_ instead of _vy._

Of course since most things she says to him are commands or rebukes: 'You already told me that line!’ or 'Read faster!’ she doubts that Leontievich notices that she's yelling at him in the familiar pronoun.

All of these things: typing skills, the familiar tense, and volume, fail to have any effect on this man. Leontievich is very unobservant. He doesn’t notice her sitting there, and wanting, dripping lust with every new line of type she creates. Stupid man, standing there in his brown suit without the jacket, dictating his garbage play, ignoring her feelings which are obviously plain.

As for the play itself, Toropetzkaya can't summarize the story. She doesn’t listen to the plot as she types, and it’s so much noise to her, only a stream of stage directions, punctuated with character’s names, and scarcely punctuated with actual grammatical marks. She has to add those in, but he probably doesn’t notice that either.

From what that parts of the play that stick in her mind, Leontovich must be some kind of frigid repressed artist, because he certainly doesn’t know how to write love scenes. Nevermind the censors, no one will want to watch this anyway. The fact that Totoroptzkaya has not said this shows the strength of her feelings, for she tells other playwrights that their plays are an insult to her transcribing skills, and a waste of the paper and ink that they use.

She’s finally got the whole thing typed up, and he’s going away. He’s going to leave Toropetzkaya to her boring job with ugly writers and their bad plays and the people on the telephone.

They’re never going to see each other again, not for script revisions or anything, because his play’s not going to make it past Ivan Vasilievich, not with million or so guns Leontivich insists on including. The man himself may not make it past Ivan Vasilievich, since he can barely follow basic instructions she’s giving him concerning how to get to the master’s house.

As she tells him good luck, Toropetzkaya realizes that she’ll have to use desperate measures, involving eye and or physical contact if she wants anything. She hasn’t touched another person for years, the last time being when she punched a man for attempting to cut in a food distribution line. But kissing can’t be too different than sudden violence, and she wants do something with Leontievich before he kills himself like so many of the writers who pass through the Independent Theater do.

He pauses in speaking, and after Toropetzkaya tells him good luck, she moves forward. Like when she punched that man who tried to cut in line, it's an unexpected move, but now she pulls her victim towards instead of pushes away. It would be more helpful if he had his suit coat on, but nevermind, she grabs his waistcoat for a handhold, and yanks.

Kissing Leontivich is certainly different than she has imagined, while sitting at her desk for long hours while he went on and on and on about gunshots.

He’s not doing anything with his mouth, but she’s doing enough with hers for both of them. The best typist in the Soviet Union bends her body against his, pulling him down to her height, and wrapping her arms around his neck but Leontievich just stands there doing _nothing._

“I hope to see you again,” Toropetzkaya says, when she finally decides to release him, knowing that she won’t.

A spot on her bottom lip hurts, and she realizes that it’s from her teeth pressing hard against her lip as she smashed her mouth against his. She runs her tongue over it, and feels the indentation left.

That was fun. What a pity he’s going to be killed by their esteemed director, or by his own hand after he sees what Ivan Vasilievich does to his play.

Back to work.

 


	2. Chapter 2

When Toropetzkaya finishes attacking his mouth with hers and leaves, Sergei Leontivich wipes his mouth with a handkerchief, unsure what the procedure after doing something like this is. He expects it to come away smeared with her lipstick, but Toropetzkaya doesn’t wear lipstick, so it comes away clean white. He goes to meet the man who will decide his fate.

It’s only later, when he’s home, worrying about how the encounter with Ivan Vasilievich went, when his minds provides him the diversion of worrying about Toropetzkaya instead. Why would she do such a thing? He hadn’t thought she was even capable of human emotion. It’s unsettling. If his play does get performed, he will have to see her again. This distresses him, but not as much as the thought of his play being rejected. Sergei decides to deal with it as he does with most problems: to ignore it until they go away.

And his play does get accepted. He’s overjoyed. He remembers what happiness is. Sergei is prepared to love everyone at the Independent Theater, including Toropetzkaya. He forgets the time she threatened to shoot him, and their awkward farewell, and other violent actions of hers. She had typed up his play in record time, and it was her work that would provide the scripts for the actors as they read his words. His words!

Inside the Independent Theater, which he enters for the first time as someone on the payroll, and not as someone trying to break into their world, everyone is doing something, and he has no idea what is going on. But he’s hopeful.

Later in the week, after still nothing much has been done, Sergei finds himself at a party at one of the theater people’s homes. He’s trying not to worry about it. The theater is an art form. It must be chaotic.

He knows almost no one there, and those he does know, all know other third parties that are not in attendance. They talk amongst each other, and about these other people he doesn’t know. There is music, but no one is dancing, while he is glad of.

Sergei ends up on the fringes of the crowd holding a drink in each hand. He is, to use a modern, western term, ‘doublefisting.’ This is an accident, for he had taken one drink upon arriving, and soon after, someone had come up to him, shaken his hand, congratulated him on the play, and handed him another one.

Now, standing against one wall, Sergei is aware that he looks like an alcoholic, but to get rid of one of the glasses would mean that he would have to move across the room, to a table, and though a crowd of people, all of whom want to congratulate him on his play, but shout at him to stop talking about work when he tries to actually discuss it further.

He decides to put one on the floor, close to the wall, and continues to stand there. Someone else and comes and leans against the wall near him. It’s Toropetzkaya. This is the first time he’s seen her, in quite while. Since getting his play accepted he has spent time in the above ground levels of the theater, in rooms with the actors doing read throughs of the script, though Sergei is beginning to worry that some of the actors cannot, actually read. Tonight, she is wearing a dark red scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. It looks like she has had her throat cut. She luckily does not try to give him another drink.

“I think it is comedy,” she says without any preamble.

“What is?”

“Your play. I think it is a comedy. Even if the subject matter is not happy, I think that the audience benefits from seeing something that is not in line with the official history of the revolution. And therefore it is a comedy because people are in a better place after it finishes. That’s the definition of a comedy, is it not?” This is the longest thing Toropetzkaya has ever said to him, and none of the sentences are ended by exclamation points. Bizarre.

“Thank you.” Sergei thinks of the criticisms he received after the novel was published. “Do you think it’s imitative of Tolstoy?”

“No, it doesn’t remind me of Tolstoy at all.”

“Oh,” This is rather disappointing. At least if something is imitative of Tolstoy, it means he got somewhere close to the great man.

“Which is good, because Tolstoy,” she says, taking a drag on her cigarette, “is full of shit.”

Toropetzkaya continues: “For example, take his characterization of Helene Bezukova, Anatole’s sister. He gives us this women, right? He says that she’s smart and cunning and whatever. She get pregnant, but she’s dealing with it. There are tons of ways to deal with this, even back then. Helene knows this. She’s going to get a divorce. She’s handling things very well. But then Lev completely writes her off, ‘Oh she overdosed on medicine,’ now she’s dead. She doesn’t even get a proper death scene. It’s stupid. She deserved better. And this is just one example.”

Sergei wonders if she is drunk.

“So, you did like my play?” He asks. If she dislikes Tolstoy, and his play wasn’t like that at all… What she’s saying about Helene is true, although he’s never thought about her character much before.

“No! I hated most things about it. All I said was that it wasn’t like Tolstoy and was a comedy. Those are not the sole standards of quality!” She is back to exclamations.

“But you did read the whole thing,” he points out.

“Here comes Ludmilla Pryakhina,” says Toropetzkaya. “And I cannot stand that women, so goodbye.” She disappears into the crowd. It is indeed Ludmilla Pryakhina, in tears and storming away from several other people. In his haste to move out of her way, Sergei’s foot nudges the glass he has set on the floor, and he finds himself standing in a spreading pool of vodka as the distraught women rushes past him. 


	3. Chapter 3

Someone’s following Toropetzkaya. She is walking home from the party, and someone is behind her. Not close enough to be threatening, but enough for her to notice the shadowy person that turns whenever she does. Toropetzkaya is not afraid of anything, and she has nothing of value with her.

  
She thinks that it went very well with Leontievich tonight. Her feelings for Leonitevich come and go, sometimes she feels consumed by them, reckless, like when she told him good luck before he went to see Ivan Vasilievich, and sometimes she cools off a bit and feels embarrassed about acting so brazen. Emotions are gross, and she dislikes them. But still, their conversation was nice. And she got to talk about Tolstoy, whom she hates.

Toropetzkaya turns around, and shouts, “Why are you following me?”

“I’m not,” answers a male voice. “I’m just going home, and you’re in front of me.” The person walks closer and she sees that it’s Leontievich. He must have left the party soon after she did. It had been one of the better ones- not graced with the presence of Ivan Vasilievich. Without the presence of their esteemed director, everyone is free to act normal. Leontievich had not seemed to enjoy it very much though. Why is he even in the theater world if he's not a fan of groveling, lying, and sycophancy?

“Where do you live?” She says, as she matches her pace to his, although he walks far too slowly. The building he names is her building too. How odd. “Mine as well,” she says. It’s the first personal information that she’s offered, Toropetzkaya realizes.

Their walk back is weird, because she can’t figure out is she should walk beside him, or go back to walking in front. Finally she gets to her door, on the ground floor, and he walks towards the stairs.

As she goes, she finds that her key is not in her right pocket, or her left, she finds with increasing desperation. She’s forgotten her key. She must have left it in her apartment. Toropetzkaya kicks the door, but half heartedly. She’s not really that mad. It’s obvious what she can do. But she doesn't really want. Except Toropetzkaya doesn't want to spend the night out here; she's pretty sure that someone was murdered in this building one night, since there are no locks on the outer doors and anyone can enter. This wins out. 

“Leontovich,” she shouts. “Wait!” Toropetzkaya runs up the stairs after him. She catches up with him up. “I’m locked out of my apartment. Let me sleep at yours tonight.” The light in the stairwell, casts the most gastly illumination she’s ever seen.

“But I,” he protests, “my place is not really clean, and-”

“Do you have a divan?”

“Yes, but-”

“Good,” Toropetzkaya, walks past him. “What floor do you live on?”

Leontievich’s living quarters are indeed, not clean. He has papers all over his tables and desks, and what looks like a cat skeleton. But he does have a couch, so she lays on it and waits for morning. She'll have to call a locksmith. Hopefully the key is in her rooms, not lost, because she doesn't want to pay for a new set.

“I don’t really have any food, but I can find something if you want,” says Leontievich, who is already up and dressed, and seems to have no idea how to behave around an actual women in his apartment. It is finally, finally, morning. Toropetzkaya does want to eat, but she doesn’t want him to make it for her. This whole experience has been weird enough. And maybe his food was what killed the cat. 

A furious knocking.

Leontivich opens the door, and there’s an older women standing there. The women sees Toropetzkaya in her unmarried tenant's apartment, far too early in the morning for a social call. “My God,” Says the landlady, though there is no God in the Soviet Union and she is prepared to swear it in court. “Who are you?”

“I’m his cousin, visiting from Siberia,” says Toropetzkaya quickly. “What do you want?”

“A reminder about the rent.”

But it’s only the fifteenth,” says Sergei, though the woman has been talking to Toropetzkaya, perhaps recognizing the stronger person. “Rent is due at the end of every month, and I paid for last month already.”

“It’s just a reminder,” she says crossly. ‘You have been late with it before.” The woman reaches out, pulls his door shut, and storms away.

“She seems nice.” Toropetzkaya says, putting on her blazer and shoes. “I’m going to the theater now. Thank you for letting me stay here.”

This feels like the plot of some horrible romantic movie that she wouldn’t watch, Toropetzkaya thinks, walking out. Office Romance starring Polixena Toropetkaya and Sergei Leontievich! That’s a terrible movie, and Ludmilla Kalugina was fine before her insolent subordinate ruined her life.

The typist finds her feelings at an ebb again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk if Office Romance was out when Black Snow was being written. Whatever, Bukalov can fight me. Office Romance is a traditional sexist romantic comedy, with Soviet weirdness. A strong women and her subordinate fall in love and she proceeds to change everything for him and have a kid.

**Author's Note:**

> Russian has two yous. Ty is informal and Vy is formal. If you're calling someone Ty, the verbs you use for them are going to be different. I really want a russian copy of Black Snow/A Theatrical Novel so I can see what pronoun she uses for him.


End file.
